


shaking the expression, making it mine

by kevystel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slice of Life, Social Anxiety, an affectionate parody of the ao3 college aus i love, not set in the usa however as my imagination only extends thus far, researched entirely using google earth street view and reddit college threads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-30 13:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10163777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: Phichit knows he’s not very good at handling other people. He wants to be, though. He’s okay with just… just winging it. He’s been winging it all his life. It’s just that he’d feel better if he had aplan, and some kind of certainty to rest on, some kind of protocol beyondpractise and practise some more and maybe cry a little bit along the way.(university au)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey autoeuphoric! sorry i didn’t feel i was qualified to write your INCREDIBLE camboy headcanon, so i hope you’re ok with a phichit-centric fic for the second part of your request. title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkaD7D2oF_s)  
> this is the trope-iest thing i have ever consciously set out to write, and is therefore full of contrived coincidences. please suspend your disbelief and roll with it

The first thing Viktor says, when Phichit comes into his dorm room after his shower to find his best friend sprawled on his bed, is: ‘What an adorable, tiny little room!’

‘Your room’s the same size,’ Phichit points out, unimpressed. He walks over to the bed and lets the towel fall from around his neck onto Viktor’s head.

Viktor shakes the towel out of his eyes, the column of his throat like silver. It’s about nine or ten degrees Celsius outside, and cream-coloured sunlight sifts through the narrow windows, highlighting the porcelain bareness of Phichit’s walls. He hasn’t gotten around to putting up his family photos and posters yet. He’s thinking maybe he’ll go for the minimalist aesthetic, these three years in university. Lying upside down with his head on Phichit’s favourite hamster plushie, Viktor drags his gaze upwards to attack Phichit with the full force of his smile.

‘It’s bigger with me in it.’

‘That makes no sense,’ Phichit says, laughing, and smacks Viktor in the face with his towel until Viktor rolls out of bed. He sits down on the bed in Viktor’s place and cuddles the plushie to his chest. ‘How was your day?’

Viktor yawns. Outside, voices slant upwards from the cobblestones and the college front quad, coated now with the dry tinfoil of autumn leaves. Phichit’s bed sits snug against the wall, backlit by a lamp set deep into the oddly sloped ceiling Phichit bumps his head on every morning. There’s a desk wedged beside the window along with a set of drawers, and a tiny, unused fireplace where Phichit intends to store his books. The two wardrobes are identical and forbidding. The natural lighting’s very flattering in pictures. ‘It was awful, Phichit. I think I’m not cut out for university. I’m going to drop out and become a model.’

Phichit snaps his towel at Viktor’s ass. ‘One, you aced your A-levels without even trying. Two, it’s been three days. Classes haven’t even started yet.’

‘I did try,’ says Viktor unblinkingly as he settles himself in Phichit’s swivel chair, all long-limbed composure. ‘I tried very hard. Shall we go out tonight? There’s a party at St. Aidan’s and Stéphane told me to bring a friend.’

Phichit suppresses his wince. ‘Okay.’ Viktor’s really hard to offend; it’s okay. He cocks his head, contorts his mouth into the well-worn shape of his smile, and changes the subject. ‘Who’s your roommate?’

‘Some Canadian with a million boxes and an undercut.’ Viktor waves a hand dismissively. ‘He drove up with his girlfriend and two siblings _and_ his parents, for some reason. Have you had a conversation with yours yet?’

‘ _No_ ,’ Phichit exclaims, letting all the suffering of the last few hours spill out of him in his relief. ‘I don’t even know his surname. I don’t know what he’s studying. I don’t know what he likes to eat or whether he’s going to murder me in my sleep. I think he was this close to drawing a chalk line down the floor between our halves of the room. I had to get his first name from his email address! Stop laughing at me!’

‘I’m not laughing at you,’ says Viktor, who is definitely laughing at Phichit. He rests his chin in both hands and gazes at Phichit, half-lidded, amused, and Phichit says a silent prayer for all the souls destroyed by Viktor Nikiforov at Freshers’ Week parties. ‘So what’s his name?’

Phichit screws up his face, trying to get the pronunciation right. ‘Seung-gil?’

‘There! You’ll be friends in no time.’

‘Sure,’ Phichit agrees, hopeful.

‘Maybe you’ll even know the first few digits of his phone number by the time you graduate.’

Phichit chucks the hamster plushie at Viktor. Viktor catches it one-handed, as the universe has endowed Viktor with the ability to be literally perfect, thus forcing Phichit to increase his own coolness ratings by association. ‘You’re the worst.’ He picks up his phone, which is nestled innocently in a dip of the coverlet. ‘What did you tweet from my account while I was showering?’

‘Who says I tweeted anything?’

Phichit waves the phone in Viktor’s face. ‘Some day I’m going to change my password, and then you will suffer.’

‘Your password is the name of your first hamster. It’s been the same since 2009.’ Viktor flips the plushie’s little paws at Phichit and produces a series of uncannily accurate hamster squeaks. ‘Come to Freshers’ Fair with me! Look, she’s cheering for you.’

Phichit has seen the Student Union and the sports hall when they’re empty, and he can’t imagine squeezing the entire cohort of first-years into those two buildings. Despite himself, his chest tightens. ‘Vitya, it’s going to be so crowded.’

‘I’m very tall and Russian. I’ll protect you,’ Viktor says, firm. ‘Come on, don’t make me go by myself, you know I only have one friend.’

* * *

The most unrealistic bit of this experience is that Phichit has a friend from his hometown at university with him. Even better: at the same _college_. Trevelyan’s one of the smallest colleges, which is good for Phichit, and has a reputation for friendliness which Phichit’s hoping _really hard_ will turn out to be true. Phichit liked the vibe of the place on Open Day and Viktor was fascinated by how everything was hexagon-shaped, so here they are. Not everybody’s so lucky. They aren’t roommates, of course, but they live in the same building and that’s more than enough for Phichit.

They only stay, like, half an hour, since there are indeed a lot of people. Phichit can feel Viktor tensing in preparation to snatch Phichit up, flip him over in mid-air and haul him through the double doors in a fireman’s carry. This invariably turns Phichit’s burgeoning panic attack into whoops of delight. Every once in a while, Viktor wonders whether the reverse effect would happen if he performed this on a non-panicking Phichit, and Phichit says _when_ _I develop a death wish, I’ll let you try_ , and they add this to their list of Serious Agreements beginning with the marriage pact.

By the time they leave, Phichit has signed up for the Coffee Society, the Animal Rights and Welfare Society, FilmSoc, Breakdance, Quidditch, Parkour, the Werewolf Society, Choc Soc, Photography, the Russian Society, and the Thai Society, and is examining the numerous other stickers that spackle his clothing. ‘I won’t have time to go to all of these,’ he mourns.

‘You’re right,’ mutters Viktor, carefully disentangling himself from the Cider Appreciation Society’s stand. Viktor is very encouraging. He takes the crumpled flyer from Phichit’s hand and turns it upside down to read it. ‘Do you even know how to pole dance?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Phichit says, and writes that down too with his LGBT-Association-provided pencil. ‘Well, I’m going there to learn, right?’

Viktor massages the bridge of his nose.

‘I’ll pick a different one to go to every week,’ Phichit decides, hooking his arm through Viktor’s while they pick their way towards the doors. Viktor casually trips over a chair and curses in Thai, loud enough that a path clears in front of them for a few seconds and Phichit can breathe freely. ‘Although…’ Phichit frowns. ‘That means every week will be my first time. That’s a bit scary. But I can’t just choose one, Vitya!’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Viktor says loyally. ‘I’m sure I’ll have a lot of free time.’

Viktor is studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics, because Viktor Nikiforov was gifted with many fine qualities except for some goddamned chill. Phichit just stares at him for a moment and lets the silence speak for itself.

Viktor sighs. ‘We’ll think of something.’

* * *

The party is kind of awful, though Phichit came here mentally prepared for that.

He’s standing in the shelter of the trees outside, trying not to get swept away, plucking at the shirt he only wears to remind himself of his grandmother and uncomfortably aware of all the eyeliner he’s got on. Shitty-great music and shitty-terrible music in equal quantities leak out from the interior of the college, taunting Phichit’s itch to dance. What do people do at parties except stand around? This one’s in its early stages, meaning that most people haven’t decided whether they’ll stay or move on to greener pastures. Phichit has been slowly yet surely taking root in the spot where he’s standing, shielded by postcard-coloured tree branches, feet absorbing nutrients from the soil, for the past twenty minutes. He tries to be thankful that he doesn’t know anybody here.

It doesn’t really help.

Somebody nearby jogs his elbow and Phichit nearly spills his drink. ‘Sorry!’ gasps this someone — curly dark hair, American accent — and Phichit opens his mouth to say it’s okay, maybe start a conversation, maybe talk to someone who isn’t the guy he’s known since he was ten years old, but she’s gone. Winding her way back into the crowds streaming out onto sunset-brown grass.

Okay.

Phichit sits down on the grass. It’s slightly damp, and he can feel the stains soaking into the seat of his nice jeans. Whatever, he’s got a great ass and everyone should notice it.

(Phichit isn’t sure which prospect scares him more: everybody staring at him as he walks by, or the throng brushing past him and _through_ him and away, leaving him floundering in their wake, invisible, uncounted, unnoticeable.)

‘Phichit!’ says Viktor, reemerging from the liquid press of people at Phichit’s side. He plucks the cup of Tesco vodka and Coke from Phichit’s hand and replaces it with something less immediately identifiable. Phichit’s very thirsty. ‘Here, drink this.’

Phichit swirls the liquid in his cup dubiously. Viktor’s hair is stickily tousled and the colour already ripe in his cheeks; the evening blurs behind Viktor, bodies and small talk and music blending incoherently into a muddy watercolour background. Phichit and Viktor have an arrangement that if Phichit embarrasses himself, Viktor will simply take off his shirt and Phichit can escape amid the lust-fuelled chaos that ensues.

That’s looking more and more attractive by the second.

‘What’s in it?’

‘Trust me,’ purrs Viktor, who has proven time and again that he cannot be trusted on the subject of intoxicating substances. Phichit shrugs and takes a long draught anyway. Can’t get any worse.

During the coughing fit that follows, Viktor pounds his back helpfully.

‘Feel better?’

‘Much,’ Phichit chokes out. He wipes his eyes. ‘Thanks. Can we go inside?’

Viktor lights up with the smile that’s made dozens of parents want to run for cover. ‘Sure!’ He takes hold of Phichit’s arm and begins towing him towards the foyer, neatly sidestepping all the trees and shifting body masses in their way. ‘I just spotted the most beautiful creature in the world. Come and see!’

‘Huh,’ says Phichit, blinking. He’s a bit dizzy. The alcohol isn’t doing anything to clear away the feeling of bodies clogging up the space around him. But he hangs on to Viktor’s elbow like it’s a lifeline, and that gets him through the impossible trek from trees to the inside of the building. ‘What kind of dog was it?’

‘ _A boy_ ,’ Viktor yells. Several people nearby turn their heads to look at them. Phichit grabs Viktor around the waist and clamps one hand over his mouth.

‘You point and show me.’

Inside is sweltering with the heat of countless other human beings, and (somehow at the same time) chilly with the influx of late-autumn air as doors clang open and shut. Phichit’s sweating. He pulls down the collar of his ratty old shirt, flicks open the first two buttons — hopes nobody’s judging him for that. This is normal, right? This is okay. Mild discomfort in new environments is okay. During those first solitary hours in his room, Phichit entertained himself by livetweeting every part of the ordeal, from the six flights of stairs with bonus suitcases to the silent horror of the bathrooms. Audience response was overwhelmingly positive. You’ve got to do something other than cower. Now — as Viktor looks round for the man of his dreams, fails to find him, and spends five minutes introducing Phichit to a tiny freckled boy who trails after Viktor like a fish behind a sperm whale — the thought occurs to Phichit that his Snapchat story isn’t so much amusing for his followers as it is _pathetic_.

He squashes down this heresy. If Phichit’s social life is going to be a trainwreck, he’ll damned well own every second of it.

‘So,’ he stammers. ‘You said… uh, Vitya said… Viktor is Vitya, it’s a long story… you’re doing the same thing as me, right? Combined Honours in Social Sciences?’

Whew.

‘Not exactly,’ says Fish Boy, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘I’m studying Criminology.’

He says this with the deep contentment of someone who has been told all his life that he can’t be Batman, and now gets to prove everybody else wrong.

‘Oh.’ Phichit looks up at the ceiling for help before realising this looks incredibly rude. He’s got half a dozen conversation scripts which all elude him at the moment. ‘So… you fight crime?’

Oh no.

Viktor swoops in to save Phichit. ‘Excuse me!’ he shouts over the blare of the music, turning away from dazzling some jaded second-year to focus the beacon of his attention on Fish Boy. ‘What’s your name again?’

‘Guang Hong,’ the boy answers uncertainly. Behind him, Phichit makes a terrified face at Viktor.

‘Okay,’ chirps Viktor, obviously forgetting the name at once, ‘bye!’ and he links arms with a lovely blond guy and vanishes into the crowd. Throwing Phichit in at the deep end and leaving him to fumble through social interaction is just how Viktor shows his love. Phichit _hates_ Viktor. Phichit is going to kill him. Phichit will record the murder for Instagram, and the satisfaction of that will be worth his prison sentence.

He turns back to Guang Hong with his trusty take-me-to-your-parents smile, tacking on charm with the ease of long practice. As much as Phichit wants to say otherwise, he’s had most of this practice in front of a mirror.

‘I’m Phichit.’

‘I know who you are.’ Guang Hong scrunches up his nose in confusion. Phichit considers running away to Thailand, where no one will know of his shame and where he can die alone, in peace, mourned by nobody, remembered only by his hamsters, his family, Viktor’s family, the secondary school teacher who told Phichit he would achieve great things, and his total of over three thousand followers on various social media platforms who will wonder about Phichit’s sudden, unexplained silence for the rest of eternity.

Then Guang Hong spots a friend at the other end of the foyer and leaves.

Phichit sits down on a shitty plastic chair beside the open bar, and decides to get roaringly drunk.

Eleven jello shots later, the walls are wavering in Phichit’s field of vision, an appealingly top-hits-of-2006 mix is thumping over the house speakers, and tonight has gone from awful to awfully amazing. Phichit may be a lightweight. If he leaves his room at all during the next three years, he’ll have to investigate this hypothesis. Phichit finds himself on the front steps of the college, swaying gently in the breeze and being talked at by some uptight guy about his twin sister, whom Phichit isn’t sure exists. Did he say Sara or Sala? Either way, it sounds fake. The double doors wink open and closed at their backs, pouring laughter and cheap booze into the metallic sweetness of night air. Phichit bounces on the balls of his feet to warm himself up.

‘Sorry,’ he says dazedly, prying himself away from Michele’s story about the USA road trip, ‘I have to, uh, I think I need to puke,’ and he wanders back inside the college. There’s newspaper crunching underfoot and a sticky yellow stain inching across the stone floor. After getting his hopes dashed by his roommate, Phichit took to leaving his door open whenever he was inside alone, having read that this was a good way of making friends in your first week. All it did was give him heart palpitations whenever someone walked past the doorway. Coming to this party was a much better idea. Phichit is surrounded by warm-mouthed, open-hearted strangers whose judgement is seriously impeded by their alcohol intake, and he’s never been more scared in his life.

He’s got that hot, loose, dangerous sensation in his fingertips that makes him think of a car on the highway whizzing towards instant doom. Phichit shoulders his way towards the common room to snag himself another drink.

There he finds Viktor, cheerfully outdrinking a group of unspeakably posh first-years, and getting mooned over by equally cheerful people of various genders and in varying states of dress.

‘Phichit!’ Viktor calls, stretching up to wave wildly in Phichit’s direction so that his shirt rides up and the entire room is treated to the bare small of his back. The music’s too loud for regular conversations, so Phichit has to read Viktor’s lips, which is… which is, yeah, a very good thing to focus on. It helps to pick something to concentrate on doing. ‘I’ve been looking for you!’

Phichit has no doubt that eight-drinks Viktor _has_ tried very hard to find Phichit. He’s just been distracted along the way by many distracting things, such as being an attractive, intimidating person at a party full of attractive, intimidating people. Phichit doesn’t hold that against him. University’s about learning to be independent and an adult, after all, and that includes having to function in social situations without Viktor.

At this point, five or six friendly faces look up at Phichit from the weatherbeaten sofa on which Viktor is magnificently losing a poker game, and Phichit discovers that he cannot, in fact, function in social situations without Viktor.

‘Um,’ he squeaks.

‘Hey, are you a first-year too?’ roars a scruffy bearded bloke right up in Phichit’s face — the music here is _way_ louder than it needs to be — and this is far too abrupt and too close. Oh dear. Against his best wishes, Phichit takes a step back.

He bumps into the sagging pool table behind him and it’s here that Viktor’s hand shoots out, grasping Phichit’s wrist and not letting go.

‘Ah,’ says Viktor in a voice like satin, easing Phichit down onto the fold-out chair beside him, ‘I was thinking you should meet —’

‘Actually, I-I was just leaving,’ Phichit gasps. Oh god, it’s back. The stutter is back. He raises his voice to be heard just barely above the grind of bass beats. ‘I… uh, I’m just going to walk back to Trevs. Okay? Okay.’ He’s seriously tempted to buy everyone at this table a round of drinks so they’ll remember him kindly in the morning. Wait, the bar is free. Even better. ‘You have fun, okay, Vitya? Use protection!’

‘Phichit?’ Viktor leans forward, hair in his eyes, flush spreading richly down into the dip of his shirt. Phichit steals a glance at the guy he’s just accidentally blown off, who looks nice, really, even if there’s no way he can be a first-year. Phichit feels guilty. ‘Are you okay? Do you need me to come with you?’

‘No!’ Phichit grabs the back of the sofa to hoist himself up. ‘No, don’t come.’ He flicks a glance at the beautiful dark-haired boy who’s snuggling into Viktor’s lap, white shirt half-unbuttoned. ‘Hey, you, don’t harass my son.’

‘I’m older than you,’ says Viktor, who was held back in school due to some intricacies of the foster care system that needed to be worked out, and holds their five-month age difference over Phichit’s head at every opportunity.

Phichit frowns at Viktor. ‘You’re my son.’

‘I think he’s harassing _me_ ,’ says the boy, his eyelashes inky-black behind his glasses. And then Viktor puts his hands on the boy's waist and he leans in and licks into Viktor’s mouth in a manner that defies what he just said, so Phichit leaves them to it. Phichit slides towards the safety of the double doors, his head buzzing loudly. He’s never been more grateful for the fact that most people have migrated to various pieces of furniture and suspiciously moving shadows on staircase landings, leaving the exits clear. He doesn’t think anyone will notice he’s gone.

The walk back to Trevs is very lonely in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

University is supposed to turn you into the opposite of what you were in school. Within a couple of weeks (says everybody), the quiet ones transform werewolf-like into hard-drinking, glass-smashing, pants-on-head-wearing animals, and the popular ones find themselves flailing on the sidelines. It’s all very touching and ugly-duckling and The Season for Making MemoriesTM.

By that logic, Phichit should be stepping _way_ out of his (admittedly huge) comfort zone. Viktor should be able to effortlessly forge meaningful connections involving emotional honesty, Phichit should be spending far less time on social media, and both of them should be straight. Obviously, none of those things are happening. Viktor is still pining over the world’s most gorgeous boy (a title to which Phichit takes great offense; clearly it’s Phichit), the one he met at that Freshers’ Week party, and Phichit’s mostly gotten over his initial consternation and decided to move on with life as usual.

‘Afterwards, he picked up his clothes and his glasses and left,’ moans Viktor, lying with his head in Phichit’s lap. They’re curled up together on a sofa in the JCR. Phichit adds Discovery Channel manatee documentaries to his list of things that get Viktor weepy at two a.m. ‘He said “thank you” — _thank you_ — and then he left!’

‘Okay, okay,’ Phichit soothes. A lot of Phichit’s weekends are spent cooped up in the JCR like this. He went to one meeting of FilmSoc — they were showing _The King and the Skater_ , and Phichit couldn’t miss that — and it’s been hard to leave his room ever since. For his part, Viktor seems to enjoy draping himself over leaky furniture while looking tragically beautiful, so if Viktor’s happy Phichit’s happy. The rest of the world will just have to get with their programme. ‘We can always find him again. Let’s go over what we already know. We know he’s a student here, right, and he certainly didn’t look like a grad student, so that narrows it down to… just about —’ Phichit whips his phone out for a quick Google search. ‘— thirteen thousand four hundred possibilities!’

Viktor groans.

‘Think about it this way.’ Phichit pats Viktor’s shoulder consolingly. ‘At least you didn’t say “you’re welcome for the great sex”. That would’ve been worse.’

‘Please,’ says Viktor, with unfathomable disdain. He kicks his feet out. ‘Like I’m that polite. What am I going to do now, Phichit?’

‘I don’t know, what do you want to do?’

‘Focus on my studies?’

‘ _Nonsense_ ,’ they say together. Then they laugh because that response’s eighty percent bull; they both care too much to really slack off. Most of the time these days, Phichit’s too absorbed in the mad scramble of tutorials and deadlines to feel bad about his empty evenings. When that stops working, he’ll find something else to occupy himself.

Viktor, on the other hand, has always been insanely driven. Viktor can show up to seminars hungover and get great participation grades and turn in fantastic essays written in a caffeine frenzy the night before, because Viktor is a fucking menace. Viktor’s not seriously impaired; Phichit is. Viktor can fake some semblance of a regular life without Phichit’s help. The other way round, not so much. Phichit’s main function is to bounce into Viktor’s room during an episode and drag him out of bed, shaking the bottle of antidepressants in Viktor’s face and going: _get up, it’s been three days, get out of bed and go to class, up up up!_

‘Hey, Vitya?’ Phichit taps the side of Viktor’s head to get his attention. ‘You ought to go out and get laid. Forget about Mystery Boy. It’s a nice Saturday night. You don’t have to stay in for my sake, you know.’

‘Oh, yes, I forgot.’ Viktor opens his eyes, deliberately misinterpreting. ‘You’re coming into town with me tomorrow.’

‘I’m not really up to going out, Vitya.’

‘You haven’t updated your Instagram in over a week,’ Viktor says.

Phichit laughs. ‘I’m fine, trust me.’

* * *

Phichit has a couple of Politics modules he shares with Viktor, thanks to the rather unwieldy, amiable-blue-whale nature of his Combined Honours programme — he gets to pick his classes this term from a scattering of various disciplines. Those are fine. At the lectures where Phichit’s on his own and has to slip inconspicuously into the hall in his pajama pants, he deliberately chooses a seat near the front. The way Phichit’s brain works, he’ll be agonising all hour over whether everyone is staring at him. Coming here alone. Sitting alone, and leaving alone. So he’ll sit right up in front, and _let them_. The back of Phichit’s head is a damned fine view. He hopes the people behind him at this International Relations lecture enjoy the Instagram feed on his laptop screen.

Dr Okukawa has a reputation for being a harsh grader. Phichit keeps his head down. He takes pretty credible notes in a Word document and tells himself that not as many students are reading over his shoulder as he thinks. Phichit’s mother says everybody else is too busy worrying about the spot on their chin or the coffee splash on their trousers to notice _your_ flaws. Hard to believe sometimes, but okay. Eh, he’ll take it. Any hope of going unnoticed is crushed when a bag drops into the empty seat beside Phichit, fifteen minutes into the lecture.

Phichit gulps. He keeps on typing.

‘Is this seat taken?’ the person asks — a deep, sultry, pretty voice, perhaps a bit louder than the situation calls for. Phichit looks up. He takes in long eyelashes and blond hair before glancing away hastily, resuming eye contact with his laptop screen, which is a lot less overwhelming.

‘Go ahead.’

Blond Hair slides into the seat and settles himself in with a sigh of contentment, ignoring the annoyed glances from all the other driven types in the front row. He’s got hangover stubble and a fucked-out look. The V-neck of his shirt dips a little low to be comfortable in this thirteen-degree weather. Living dangerously; Phichit likes it. Phichit goes back to paying attention to the lecture, trying to hone in on the precise syllables now thundering far too loud in his head. He grimaces at his keyboard. Sorry, Dr Okukawa, this isn’t working.

Blond Hair gets out a coffee from the toastie bar and peels off its lid, setting it gently on the fold-out table minus a notebook or laptop or anything related to academics. He scratches the back of his head, and sighs. Phichit sneaks a glance to his right and considers offering the guy a sheet of foolscap or something, since life is evidently being difficult for Blond Hair this morning. No, okay. Don’t make this weird, Phichit. God, he wishes he knew what to do — how to tell whether the little gestures Phichit feels like making are normal, or normal-to-Viktor-and-absolutely-nobody-else, or just plain fucking creepy.

There’s the unmistakable crack of a tab being popped, and Phichit cringes. He looks over. It’s a can of Red Bull from one of the vending machines in the foyer. This is followed by a can of Coke, and Phichit approves. Dr Okukawa’s back is ferociously turned. The seat creaks unbearably as Blond Hair shifts his weight. Phichit bites his tongue, fingers freezing over the keys. They’re in the _front row_. Blond Hair walks in late and chooses to sit down in the front row. What a guy. Another glance sideways and downwards confirms that Blond Hair is not wearing any underwear.

_Don’t make this weird._

‘You need help with that?’ he whispers, trying to block out the real-or-imagined disapproval he can feel radiating towards them from everyone in the vicinity.

‘Oh, sorry.’ Blond Hair notices Phichit looking and doesn’t seem turned off by it. He sticks out a hand, good-natured. ‘I’m Christophe. Chris.’

‘Phichit.’

An empty thermos flask has now joined its brethren on the fold-out table. Dr Okukawa’s well into the next chapter, racing ahead of schedule because she is horrifyingly efficient, and Phichit couldn’t possibly give less of a shit. He’s enjoying himself. Chris is grimly yet cheerfully pouring his coffee into the thermos flask, followed by the contents of the can of Coca-Cola, and then the entire can of Red Bull. He holds the swiftly emptying aluminium cans far higher above the flask than necessary. Somehow, this makes the act look as delicate and lovely and expert as the vendors pouring _teh tarik_ in the Chatuchak Market.

Phichit stares.

‘Something to stir with would be nice,’ Chris whispers back, keeping his voice down this time.

Dr Okukawa’s writing on the whiteboard now. Phichit comes to the realisation that he has never been destined to be one of the front row types. He’s nowhere near attentive enough. He’s glad he tried it out, though. He fishes in his pencil case for a ballpoint pen and hands it to Chris.

‘ _C’est la vie!_ ’ says Chris, whisking the pen away with a flourish after giving the contents of his flask a vigorous stir, and he takes a long and luscious slurp. He closes his eyes. He opens them again, shaking his head like a man coming out of a trance, and smacks his lips with a lewd noise.

Then he winks at Phichit and offers him the flask. ‘Want some?’

Phichit falls a little bit in love.

* * *

Speaking of love, Phichit makes it his mission to identify Viktor’s Mystery Boy. He’s painting his nails in Viktor’s bed on a not-quite-miserable afternoon, watching Viktor cut his own hair over the washbasin, when he comes to this decision. Viktor forgets people’s names as easily as he learns them. That character flaw has been sidestepped by Viktor never knowing Mystery Boy’s name in the first place. Phichit remembers the boy with the white shirt and glasses being pretty — that’s nothing. Viktor surrounds himself with pretty people through the sheer power of being Viktor. Of course Viktor would go fall in love in the first week of university, and Viktor is long overdue for a tragic and marvellous love story anyway, so hats off to Mystery Boy, honestly. Phichit likes people who make his friends happy. Mystery Boy actually seems sort of wonderful, and Phichit will find him on the Internet, which is Phichit’s forte, and threaten him with bodily harm on Viktor’s behalf, which is also Phichit’s forte, and this may just get Viktor interested in something for the first time since circa 2013. Phichit’s a pretty optimistic person.

The challenge will also keep Phichit out of his own head until the end of Michaelmas term at least, and then he’ll be home for Christmas and everything will be okay.

He hopes so.

This game plan keeps Phichit’s spirits up while he’s sitting in his Anthropology TA’s office, eating ginger biscuits and trying not to drop too many crumbs on her nice oak desk.

‘Phichit, sweetheart —’ Yuuko pauses and turns a bit pink. ‘Sorry, I’ve got three children at home. Habit, you see. Can I call you sweetheart?’

Phichit smiles. ‘Please.’

‘Okay.’ She smiles back. ‘Listen, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got a contribution mark to think about and I’d hate to see your grades suffer. It seems like such a shame; your essays are quite lovely, you know.’

Phichit blinks. ‘Wow.’ He makes a mental note to pass on this scrap of praise to his parents when they Skype this weekend. ‘Oh! Thanks.’

‘Start with tutorials,’ Yuuko suggests. She opens the tin of biscuits again and hands him another one. Phichit tends to get offered tea and sweet edibles very often — whether it’s by the secretaries in his secondary school’s office as he waited for counselling sessions, or the elderly librarian who works the Friday night shift at Trevs. This is how Phichit knows he’s not fundamentally unlikeable. ‘Smaller groups might be easier, right? They’re not as scary as the seminars and workshops, I should think. Hmm?’

Phichit opens his mouth to explain how the small groups make it _harder_ , that he’s still praying everyone has forgotten how he shamed himself in the Week 0 induction sessions. That he’s petrified by the knowledge that his tutorials are filled with the same people every week and they have a fixed impression of him already and they’ll remember him, that he hates — he _hates_ being the quiet one in the back when he doesn’t feel like a quiet one in the back at all.

But his tongue is betraying him, as usual. So he settles for: ‘I… I try. It’s sort of difficult.’

‘Okay,’ Yuuko says, patient. ‘Well, you keep working on that contribution mark, okay?’ She takes a ginger biscuit herself and munches on it for a thoughtful minute. Phichit lets the silence stretch. ‘I’ll speak to Prof Cialdini, and maybe we can work something out. In the meantime, shall I put you in touch with the Welfare Reps at our college? Their names are Leo and Otabek. They’re very nice.’

‘It’s okay,’ says Phichit, wincing.

‘Do you play any sports?’ Phichit’s blank expression must be all the answer Yuuko needs, for she just continues. She fills up the empty spaces in the conversation good-naturedly. ‘Are you in any student societies? Forgive me if I’m overstepping — you look like a dancer.’

‘Oh.’ Phichit wets his lips. He thinks desperately, _what would Viktor say?_ and reaches the conclusion that Viktor wouldn’t be in this situation at all. So he shuts his eyes and wings it. ‘Breakdance? I haven’t g-gone much.’

‘Well!’ Yuuko’s smile is very nice; Phichit mirrors it on reflex. ‘Funny you should say that. I’ve got a Psychology first-year there who can keep you company.’ Yuuko did her Bachelor’s in Anthropology and Psychology _and_ raised triplets while studying and now she’s a TA, because Yuuko’s pretty amazing. Now she’s writing something down on a scrap of paper and tucking it into the pocket of Phichit’s hoodie, holding the fabric away from him to stay out of Phichit’s space. ‘Today’s Thursday. Am I right?’

‘Right.’

‘They meet on Thursdays and Sundays. You show up tonight, you hear? I’ll know about it if you don’t. I’m telling Yuuri to keep a lookout for you. He’ll meet you at the Student Union beforehand, so don’t you try to run away.’

Running away is the last thing Phichit generally wants to do. He gives her a brave smile to show his assent, even though his mouth hurts.

On his way out, Phichit ducks into the nearest bathroom to pull himself together and reapply his liquid eyeliner. It’s not waterproof, which is a shame. He does that very quickly, glancing at the bathroom door every now and then as though he can will it to remain closed. _Please, please don’t let anyone come in._ He thinks about calling Viktor — but Viktor just finished having a Bad Day yesterday and Phichit figures that asking him to deal with Phichit now would push Viktor back into that headspace. The best times are when they’re having Bad Days together: it’s super effective!

‘I deserve to be here,’ Phichit tells his reflection, flicking his hair out of his eyes and winking at the mirror. ‘Yes, I’m talking about you there, big boy. You deserve to be here. Yes, you do. Yes, you!’ He points finger guns at his reflection. He feels fearless. He looks incredible.

* * *

Phichit hangs around the Vane Tempest Room at seven-fifty p.m., hands deep in his pockets, trying not to crinkle the little ribbon of torn-off foolscap with his new friend’s contact details on it. Phichit gets to use such hopeful terms as _friend_ in the privacy of his own mind because fuck you, that’s why. The heating’s not too good inside this building. Phichit zips up his hoodie all the way to his chin. The group’s for beginners _and_ people who can breakdance at a professional level. They welcome people to drop in at any time. The little description on their website says the sessions have a fun, friendly, relaxing atmosphere to let students destress by dancing. At the same time they can get pretty intense which is how you know the society knows what it’s about and isn’t just here to fuck around. Please please please please please. It is _not_ a good idea to flee to his dorm and just get started on some reading for his Monday tutorial instead. He’s not fleeing. Phichit’s no quitter.

He was supposed to show up early to meet this person. Phichit isn’t sure how ethical it is of Yuuko to give her students each other’s phone numbers, but she probably knows both of them well personally; she certainly knows Phichit. Anyway, it’s hard to tell whether somebody hates you over the course of a few brief texts. Phichit gets the distinct feeling that the other guy doesn’t like to be bothered much.

He leans his weight against the doorframe, glancing at the sliver of attractive wooden flooring peeking through the gap, and licks his chapped lips. He runs through one of the mini-scripts he’ll never use: _hi, how are you, I’m Phichit Chulanont and I’m a first-year like you and I hope you have your shit together because I really, really don’t_.

‘Excuse me?’ someone says behind him. Phichit turns around. ‘Are you here for…? I’m here to set up. Oh. _Oh_.’

‘It’s _you_ ,’ Phichit blurts.

Katsuki Yuuri takes off his glasses and wipes them on the sleeve of his dust-grey hoodie, and squints at Phichit without them, and then puts them back on and squints at Phichit again. He’s very, very pretty. Phichit catches himself staring. Viktor has great taste.

Phichit feels a slow river of delight spreading like lava upwards from his toes all the way to his chest, because he _remembers_ that face. He has been _this close_ to creeping on other people’s Facebook accounts in search of that face — on long moonlit all-nighters in the distantly quiet laundry room. Phichit thanks his stars for postponing his transformation into the sad, sad stalker Phichit is fated to become. He ought to say hi. He ought to express all these wonderful emotions in words, and perhaps remind Yuuri of the terrible Freshers’ Week party at which Viktor got fucked within an inch of his life and Phichit just fucked off, but… but his mouth is working wrong, temporarily, just a little.

Just a little.

So there’s only silence.

Yuuri says: ‘Oh,’ again, and takes out his phone and looks at it, frowning. He does not look at all like he wants to be reminded of any terrible Freshers’ Week parties. To Phichit’s advantage, it was Yuuri who texted Phichit first — between Phichit’s Sociology lecture and his Russian class. To set up their little _don’t-fuck-this-up-Phichit_ preliminary meet-up. That means this — them, face-to-face, _painfully_ awkward in the echoing vastness — is okay, right? Yuuri… Yuuri knows they’re supposed to be here together, right? _Nobody minds what you’re doing because they’re too busy worrying about what they’re doing_. Phichit wishes he could believe that. The silence is dragging.

Yuuri asks now, ‘You’re Phichit, right?’

There’s a rustle of feet on the stairs — many pairs of feet — and Phichit resists the urge to put a hand up to touch his ears, which are beginning to burn. He’s too late for this conversation; he’s falling behind. Sometimes he feels like he’s forever running late, racing after quicksilver silences waiting to be filled, frayed-wire connections brushing past him, all these alien other lives marching on and on and steadily on.

‘Oh,’ Phichit repeats after Yuuri, dragging out the vowel so it sounds like an ah-just-realised _oh_ instead of a sharp, startled, unsmiling _oh_. He tucks his mouth upwards into the smile that makes Phichit look like he knows what he’s doing. There are loads of people coming up the stairs to start their training session. Phichit should get out of the way; he’s just in the way right now. ‘My mistake, sorry. Took you for someone else — don’t worry about it. Have a nice day!’

‘What,’ says Yuuri, confused, still with his phone in his hand, and he continues to frown. He sounds tired and has that _I-did-not-sign-up-for-this-shit_ sort of face which… which Phichit, really, can sympathise with. Yuuri isn’t acting anything like the person Phichit saw dancing to JLo with about five different blokes in St. Aidan’s JCR that one time. Yuuri gazes at Phichit for a second longer, hot-eyed, and then wrinkles his nose. ‘Wait. Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

Phichit skids to the other end of the corridor and beats the smoothest retreat he’s ever made.

* * *

In the safety of his room, alone (Seung-gil isn’t there — what does Seung-gil do all day? Phichit doesn’t know), Phichit sits down at his desk and takes stock of his options. This isn’t so bad. This is okay. Phichit is used to it. He’s had plenty of practice. He knows he can just move on, and everybody else will forget about his small humiliations in time. He’ll explain himself to Yuuko later. Yuuko is safe, she’s in the “safe” category in Phichit’s head along with Viktor and Viktor’s foster father Yakov and a bunch of other people with whom Phichit’s worked his way into a fuzzy-blankets friendship over the years.

He’s really kind of homesick.

In any case, today’s experience has produced some unexpected results. Phichit considers giving Viktor Yuuri’s number for all of three seconds before he discards the idea. Yuuri wouldn’t like that. Well, Phichit has more than he did when he started out. He has a name for Mystery Boy, and a rough sort of profile, and that’s what Phichit will tell Viktor. Viktor can do what he likes with the information. Which is… probably nothing, because Viktor talks about tracking down the possible love of his life with the same bored interest he uses to discuss midnight ice-skating sessions on the pond if it ever freezes over completely. Phichit has learned, bravely and painfully through a process of trial-and-error, which social gestures are Okay and which ones are Really Not Okay. They’re both aware that hunting down someone you shagged one time and really wanted to see again is more likely to get you a restraining order than a date.

So Yuuri’s safe. If Phichit tells Viktor about Yuuri, Viktor will just go: _oh, okay!_ and roll over onto his stomach and go back to smashing out an outline for this week’s essay, and smiling at acquaintances like he cares about them, and not bothering to paint his nails any more like he used to love doing because it’s simply too much work.

Sometimes, it seems as though nobody here is having a particularly good time. Phichit wonders whether that’s normal. He doesn’t have much of a frame of reference.

Okay, well, it’s not like he has anything better to do. He picks up his phone and shoots off a text to Viktor, no preliminaries.

_mystery boy is katsuki yuuri, psych student. same age as us. you’re welcome_

Viktor’s reply comes almost immediately and has nothing to do with Phichit’s initial text. It’s a photo of his shared room gleaming with paper plates, on which stacks and stacks of pancakes made with 85p Asda mix are heaped and dripping with maple syrup. In the background there are AC/DC posters tacked to the walls, unwashed sweaters flung blithely everywhere, the swivel chair draped with a cheery football scarf, somebody else’s laptop playing a movie in the background.

Phichit’s phone dings again and it’s another photo, a selfie this time: Viktor winking at the camera with his plate of fresh pancakes from his floor’s pantry. He looks exuberant and bright and full. Phichit’s proud of Viktor’s selfie angles. It took a lot of work to get Viktor to that level. This one is captioned:

_jj leroy is actually an amazing roommate, i take everything back_

Phichit suddenly feels very sad. He crawls into his tiny, empty, unlived-in bed with the three pillows and the hamster-print bedding and pulls the covers over his head. He’s okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll figure out something.


	3. Chapter 3

_Start slow_ , Lilia says over the phone a few hours later. _One person at a time. You’ll figure this out._

Phichit misses Viktor’s foster family so much it hurts a little bit. Well, he loves his own family too, but they’re there for him all the time, just sort of simmering away in the background where he can grope around with one hand and know where to find them. Viktor’s household is more like a treat. The Friday special. Weekend sleepovers, accidental road trips. Watching eighties movies in the living room with Mila and Yuri, till the sun comes up raw in the dawn and Georgi’s rattling pots and pans in the kitchen. Sending Viktor out to get McDonald’s and taking over his old bedroom in the meantime. Raised voices. Not raised in the bad way, in the way that means anger and arguments — it’s just that in a house like that, you have to shout to make yourself heard.

Phichit is really, really lonely these days.

Like Viktor, he’s pretty extroverted. Phichit figures that’s the problem. It wouldn’t feel so bad if he were more… more, you know, quiet, closed-off, a shut-in by nature. Phichit gets his energy from other people, and if he carries on like this any longer he’s going to just melt away and die. Everybody would miss him, and Phichit can’t do that to the world.

‘Do you want to go out and grab pizza?’ he asks Seung-gil that night, after Seung-gil lets himself into the room with a backpack hanging precariously off one shoulder and an implacable frown (leftover from the day’s classes) tacked onto his face. Their room’s very neat. Seung-gil’s a lovely roommate, really.

‘No,’ Seung-gil says.

‘Okay.’ Phichit shrugs off the rejection. It’s fine. This has happened plenty of times between them by now. He swings his chair around and goes back to his homework. ‘Never mind.’

There’s a long pause behind him. At least, it _feels_ like a pause — not their usual infinity of silence, you know? Like the conversation isn’t complete. Phichit reaches across his desk and picks up his Coke from the downstairs vending machine to take another swig.

He waits.

Near the back of the room, the wardrobe door slams shut. Seung-gil says gruffly, ‘I prefer to order in.’

 _Bingo_.

Phichit grins, keeping his eyes on his book. ‘Okay.’ He chews on his bottom lip for a second or two, trying to think of what comes next. His phone’s on the bedside table right now, where Phichit can’t reach it easily. He’ll have to stretch around to get it. ‘Do you… should I, should I call, or…?’

‘Don’t bother. I’ll do it.’

Phichit manages not to fist-pump until he’s sure Seung-gil’s back is turned, but it’s a near miss.

* * *

Chris starts sitting next to Phichit in all the classes they have together. That’s nice of him. Chris is really nice. Phichit doesn’t have many standards regarding the people he wants to be friends with, beyond “not a terrible person” and maybe “entertaining, if possible”, and this ought to make things easier for Phichit in general. Chris keeps the hangover stubble even on the days he isn’t hungover, it turns out; he just doesn’t shave. He has a talent for looking well-fucked, which Phichit needs to investigate further. He shares Phichit’s taste in music. He shares coffee with Phichit. He occasionally overshares — such as the time their conversation turns to the subject of dating histories, over ice cream in the campus café on Sunday. Chris demands, ‘You wonderful boy, what do you mean you’ve never been kissed?’ and launches into a twenty-minute-long exposition of his own exploits.

‘I refuse to believe you can’t tell when people are hitting on you,’ Viktor says eleven hours later, after Phichit relates this to him. He’s standing in the pantry in a pair of sweatpants and one of Phichit’s Disney shirts, making eggs-in-the-basket with a YouTube cooking tutorial playing on his phone nearby. Phichit sits up on the counter and kicks his heels merrily. ‘You’ve been eating lunch with this guy after your lecture every Wednesday, haven’t you? And what’s this you’ve been telling him? I didn’t raise you to be a liar. _I’ve_ kissed you! I’ve kissed you lots of times!’

‘That’s not what I meant. You’re family. It’s like kissing Makkachin,’ Phichit protests. Viktor cracks an egg one-handed to show his displeasure. Phichit rubs his eyes with his knuckles and continues: ‘I don’t want to screw this up. Help me out here! I don’t have the skills to function normally in, like, normal-person situations. I’m trying so hard just to maintain eye contact that I kind of… can’t keep tabs on everything else I’m doing.’

Viktor scoops up the first few slices of bread with a spatula, dumps them onto a paper plate and turns around to hand Phichit his soggy, generous helping. These late-night cooking sessions are a step up from eating cold sardines straight from the can like they used to do. ‘You’re doing fine. Careful, it’s hot. Don’t burn your fingers.’

Phichit blows on the surface of his eggs. ‘I’m sure there’s cutlery around here somewhere.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Viktor replies, turning back to whip up a second batch of eggs-in-the-basket for himself. ‘Oh — I found salt and pepper packets in this drawer. Do you want some? Do condiments expire?’

‘No, thanks. It’s okay.’ Phichit gingerly tugs one piece of bread to the edge of the paper plate with his front teeth. ‘I hope everything works out all right. Mmm, this is good, Vitya.’ He chews for a few moments as he thinks. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, you know. Like, in general. For anything ever. I’m making it up as I go along. “Is This Our Third Date Or Is He Just Being Friendly?” Stay tuned to find out!’

‘Keep on doing whatever you’re doing. You’ll be okay,’ says Viktor. Viktor does not know who Chris is, at least beyond Phichit’s descriptions of him. Chris, however, knows who Viktor is. Everybody knows who Viktor is. Viktor’s been the hot guy on campus at every school he’s attended since he was sixteen years old. Phichit’s ideas of what _should_ be happening in social situations, therefore, are somewhat skewed as a result of growing up with someone who makes the laws of reality bend around him wherever he goes. It’s nobody’s fault. ‘People aren’t going to run away from you, you know. Just let them be.’

* * *

Phichit wonders about introducing Viktor to Chris; he likes his friends to like each other. He’s still figuring out the mechanics of having more than one friend, to be honest. He’s noticed Viktor is very careful not to speak to any of Phichit’s acquaintances unless Phichit engineers a meeting, as though Viktor thinks Phichit will resent him for stealing Phichit’s friends. This is bullshit. Phichit’s not that petty. Phichit just wants to be happy, and for Viktor to be happy, and for Viktor to stop stress-eating noodles and tinned soup at ungodly hours while _not_ gaining any weight because life is unfair. He wonders if he’s overthinking things.

Phichit knows he’s not very good at handling other people. He wants to be, though. He’s okay with just… just winging it. He’s been winging it all his life. It’s just that he’d feel better if he had a _plan_ , and some kind of certainty to rest on, some kind of protocol beyond _practise and practise some more and maybe cry a little bit along the way_. Phichit has done plenty of crying in his time. He’s pretty much tired of it. He wishes he was okay with eating breakfast in the dining hall on his own, or, you know, actually _turning up_ for meals instead of bringing snacks back to his room on days when functioning is difficult. He deserves to have friends. He deserves to step out beyond being the eyeliner kid who features in sixty percent of Viktor’s Instagram posts. Several people already know Phichit by association. Phichit’s very good-looking and his enforced silence in front of Viktor’s various hangers-on just makes him seem enigmatic. Phichit is, like, the opposite of enigmatic.

Anyway, Phichit has a pleasant week or so after the talk with Viktor in the pantry — at least, it’s pleasanter than most of his weeks have been up to this point. On Thursday he gives in to the urge he’s been repressing for the past month and calls Viktor on the phone at midnight. Careful not to wake Seung-gil, who sleeps lightly at the other end of the room (and goes to bed at ten-thirty like some well-adjusted human being, the _idea_!), Phichit cups his hand over the phone and whispers: ‘Can you do the speech?’

And then Viktor inhales, and clears his throat and goes, ‘I love you, my honey, my darling, my sunshine child,’ and goes on to list all the wonderful things Phichit’s done in the past nine years until Phichit feels a lot better, like he’s charming and good and likeable.

And by Friday he’s fine.

On Friday Chris asks him to dinner. The time they settle on is an odd time for Phichit — his timetable isn’t the best this term — but that’s okay. Chris says Phichit can hang out in his room to wait for him after Phichit’s last lecture of the day. The air outdoors is bitterly cold, the trees long since turned grey and skeletal, and the extra layers Phichit’s wearing make him feel safe. He’s all bundled up and comfortable. Phichit rubs his reddening nose with the back of his hand as he crosses the central quad, early snow crunching wetly underneath his shoes, wind brushing his cheeks. He’s had a long walk from the Geography building back to Trevs, and this weather is making him sleepy. The evening’s really kind of dismal. It’s okay; he’s home.

He takes off his beanie and coat and scarf and leaves his things in Chris’ room, then heads down the landing to check his eyeliner in the bathroom mirror. Phichit would do great at clubs. Unless he spent the whole night hiding in the bathroom, he’d look amazing with minimal touch-ups, and manage not to fall over on the dancefloor, and probably not have to pay for many of his own drinks. Unfortunately, Phichit is very familiar with the insides of bathrooms and how to occupy them.

Well, he has three years to get used to going out. The idea is very appealing. He’ll have plenty of chances to practise, anyway, since both Chris and Viktor are clubbing types. Really, there is no reason those two shouldn’t be friends. They’re both at Trevs. Chris is studying International Relations and Viktor’s doing PPE. Plenty of their modules overlap. He’ll just give them time. It’ll happen eventually.

At this point, Phichit’s train of thought gets interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of somebody crying in the bathroom he’s just walked into.

Huh. Phichit checks the showers first; they’re all empty, though. The muffled sobs are coming from the last cubicle on the left, furthest from the doorway. Phichit has a moment of bemusement — surely sitting on the toilet with the seat down isn’t half as comfortable as crying in bed or in the shower? Oh, well, different strokes for different folks. Phichit glances over his shoulder.

The bathroom’s empty. The hallway outside is silent. It’s just him and this guy.

Okay.

Phichit doesn’t think too hard about what he’s doing. This is the best thing about university — your anonymity, your freedom. He’s an adult. He’ll be fine. Could be a terrible decision but eh, he’ll walk away unscathed. Phichit’s not going to let himself fret. It’d kill his momentum. All the contemplation Phichit allows himself is that he asks internally: _what would Yurochka do?_ and then gamely does the opposite.

Phichit knocks politely on the door of the cubicle.

‘Hey, I know you’re in there,’ he calls. ‘I mean, who… whoever you are, if you’d rather be alone, o-of course. But I’m going to, I’m, I’ll just leave a bottle of water next to the sink outside and walk away, okay? And concealer. In case you want them. Actually, can you knock twice if you want the concealer? It cost me a lot of money and I’m poor.’

There’s a pause; the sniffling is getting quieter. More restrained.

Then: there it is. Two knocks. Hesitant yet distinct.

Phichit sighs. He’s going to miss that product. He shrugs, before realising the person inside can’t see him, and steps well away from the cubicle so they can watch his feet retreating out of their space.

 _Okay_ , he thinks. _Okay, just — just keep going._

‘Okay.’ He’s pitching his voice to just the right level of cheery, and Phichit hopes that works. ‘I’m going to go now. You take care.’

‘Wait,’ says a voice from inside the cubicle, sudden and choked-off, almost desperate. It’s so unexpected that Phichit jumps. ‘Can you… stay?’

‘What?’ Phichit says before he can stop himself. He _does_ catch himself then, a bit too late, and looks around the dull-tiled bathroom. The acoustics of this place are awful. Even Phichit’s voice bounces off the walls and ceiling a little too clearly for comfort, and as for the person in the cubicle, they shouldn’t be forcing themselves to speak. They sound very hoarse.

Phichit shifts from foot to foot, craning his neck. He tries to imagine what he looks like in that little sliver of the world peeking underneath the cubicle door. He’s been in this position, except that _Phichit_ didn’t have a Phichit to come knocking on the door of his favourite crying-place. So it’s not like he has any prior experience from which he can figure out a plan of action. He wonders whether the rest of the world faces this much difficulty when they’re trying to help other people: _what do you need? How can I make you feel better instead of worse? How can I read your mind?_

It’s very scary.

‘Well, I’m not going to stand outside your door the whole time, that’s…’ Phichit backs towards the counter and hoists himself up. He braces himself on the heels of his hands, swinging his legs. ‘Can you see my feet from here?’

Silence. Phichit feels bad about having interrupted a good cry. He ought to leave; you’ve got to let people let it all out in privacy. But — okay, sure, whatever they want.

Then something occurs to him. Phichit frowns. There’s a note of familiarity, somehow, even in the subsiding tide of nose-blowing and hiccups and all those unglamorous realities of a minor meltdown. He says, ‘Knock once for no, twice for yes. Or you can say yes too, that’s fine.’

Another hiccup. ‘I can see you.’

Phichit raises his eyes to the ceiling. _Somebody_ up there has to be coordinating their lives. This goes beyond the realm of coincidence and into divine intervention.

Phichit breathes in. ‘Yuuri,’ he says, ‘is that you? My concealer’s too dark for you.’

There’s the click of a lock being disengaged on the inside of the door, and now Yuuri emerges, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his hoodie. Phichit averts his own gaze. This is _way_ out of Phichit’s comfort zone. This is unexplored territory. Everything at him is screaming at him to cancel this operation and beat a retreat while he still can.

He doesn’t.

Phichit casually raises one hand to his mouth and bites the side of his thumb to strengthen his resolve. Yuuri, thankfully, doesn’t notice. ‘Do you want to go back in and finish? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.’

Yuuri doesn’t look at Phichit. He turns on the tap in the sink.

Phichit scoots over on the counter to leave Yuuri more room. The silence is worrying, and yet Phichit lets it sit.

Yuuri clears his throat.

Phichit waits. He’s pretty patient; he can wait all day.

‘I’m done.’

‘Okay,’ says Phichit. ‘You want that bottle of water?’

Yuuri takes it.

Phichit glances at his reflection in the smudged mirror, crossing his ankles. He’s not very sure what to do. ‘This isn’t the best bathroom to cry in,’ he tries at last, while Yuuri sips delicately from the rim of Phichit’s water bottle with his eyelashes cast down. ‘It’s all echo-y. Don’t you hate hearing the sound of your own voice? The one upstairs is better.’

‘I know,’ replies Yuuri, screwing the bottle cap back on without looking up. ‘I live here.’

Phichit blinks. He almost flinches before he realises he isn’t being curtly rebuffed; this is just how Yuuri talks. Yuuri’s _making conversation_. They’re okay.

‘On this floor?’ Phichit asks. He checks his phone quickly. He’s got at least fifteen minutes before he’ll have to leave. Probably more, since Chris’ Friday seminar usually runs overtime. ‘That’s cool. I live two floors above you. Who’s your roommate?’

‘Christophe Giacometti.’

Phichit takes a moment just to let that sink in. He exhales, leaning against the mirror. This series of events is _unbelievable_. Chris is Yuuri’s roommate. Yuuri is Chris’ roommate. Phichit is friends with Chris; Phichit wants to be friends with Yuuri; Phichit’s Viktor has a latent crush on Chris’ Yuuri. Phichit’s going to be just fine. This is going to be Phichit’s year.

‘So,’ he begins, and then falls silent. He doesn’t know how to move on from there. Instead of trying to start another conversation, which doesn’t seem appropriate at this time anyway, Phichit smacks the crusty old dispenser helpfully so that it squirts dull pink liquid soap into Yuuri’s cupped palms. Yuuri is doing that thing you do when you don’t have a tissue so you just fill your hand with water from the tap, and blow your nose into the water, and wash your hands with soap afterwards. It is a testament to Katsuki Yuuri’s power that he manages to make all sorts of gross actions look endearing. What’s more important to Phichit at this time is that Yuuri doesn’t have a bag with him. He ought to have _supplies_ , like facial wipes and a packet of tissues and Nature’s Response tea tree oil for £3 from Asda. Phichit should get them for him.

Is that okay? Is that something people do for other people?

Yuuri finishes rinsing his hands and darts a sidelong glance at Phichit, an unsure, barely-there, under-the-eyelids sort of glance. He evidently gives zero fucks about anything at this point in time. Phichit gathers that information and runs with it.

‘Should I call Chris?’ he asks. He itches to reach over and fix Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri, however, just splashes a bit of water on his red, blotchy face and proceeds to wipe his hands on the front of his hoodie.

Yuuri looks up at Phichit like a lost fawn. ‘Please don’t.’

‘Okay,’ murmurs Phichit, switching to the soothing voice he’s picked up from Viktor in post-crisis situations. No, forget that. Phichit’s good at being soothing on his own, without defaulting to poor man’s imitations of other people. Since one of them is going to have to do the talking here, and he doesn’t feel like it’s right for him to leave just yet, his mouth spits out something harmless and inane: ‘So you live with Chris, huh? What’s that like?’

‘He’s my only friend,’ says Yuuri shyly, and in various locations across campus, every other person who thought they were friends with Yuuri feels their heart shatter into a million pieces. Phichit _knows_ these things. He bites down on his lower lip, hard.

‘I just came from his room,’ Phichit says, unable to come up with a better response. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to be in Chris’ room now. How much space does Phichit get to take up? Is this an Awkward Situation, and is he handling it right? ‘I mean, from your room. Do you… do you, um —’

Fuck it.

‘Want me to walk you back?’ he finishes.

Yuuri shrugs, gaze drifting away to his bottom right and lingering on the puddle-soaked tiles of the bathroom floor. His tongue flicks out to wet the centre of his lower lip. After a moment, he glances up again and hands Phichit the water bottle.

‘Keep it,’ Phichit tells Yuuri, trying not to seem like he’s floundering. He’s been here before; he wouldn’t like Yuuri to sink down into that surreal post-crying quicksand where the air stagnates thickly around you and the rest of the world slides to a stop. Talking after you’ve been crying for a while is always hard. Your first words come out croaky, and your throat hurts. Well, Yuuri’s already been talking so he shouldn’t stop. Phichit shouldn’t let Yuuri stop. He’s not certain which of them is more scared right now — surely, _that’s_ unnecessary. Phichit’s very non-threatening.

There’s another long pause, so Phichit breaks the silence. He slides off the counter, cocking his head in Yuuri’s direction. ‘C’mon.’

‘I thought it was you,’ Yuuri says, following Phichit out of the bathroom. It’s so soft that Phichit has to lean in to hear what he’s saying. He sounds a little bit relieved, almost. He looks small and quiet and vulnerable. Phichit wants to put Yuuri in his hoodie pocket and take him home.

‘In the cubicle? Yeah, my voice is pretty distinctive.’ Phichit slides his hands into his pockets to have somewhere to put them. The landing outside is empty. Neighbouring rooms are all clustered together in what’s probably meant to be a distinctive communal arrangement, not that that’s helped Phichit much. All the doors are closed. Phichit scratches the back of his head. _What do I do now_ , he thinks furiously. He wants to say something energetic but not overwhelming, something nice, honest yet sparklingly charismatic, preferably not what Phichit actually wants to say, which is: _do you want to be my friend? I think it’s fate_.

Phichit bites his tongue. He comes up blank, sliding past all the imperfect unacceptable possibilities in his head. Like _I haven’t really seen you around_ , and _sorry I never came to Breakdance trainings after all, though I don’t think you noticed_ , and _what are you studying_ (Phichit already knows the answer), and Phichit’s go-to conversation starter at parties: _would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or one hundred duck-sized horses?_

(Phichit’s answer, for the record, would be the horse-sized duck. He would tame the mighty beast, and ride it into the sunset like the ending of _The Last Crusade_.)

The inside of Phichit’s mind is very noisy. He’s got to make up for how hard it is to vocalise sometimes. Strike some kind of balance. Yet maybe he isn’t being as silent on the outside as he thinks he is, for he must’ve made some kind of sound, or opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Yuuri has raised his head, and is looking at Phichit expectantly.

Phichit takes a deep breath and wings it.

What finally comes out of Phichit’s mouth is: ‘Is it normal to fall in love with someone after having an incredible one-night stand?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done it,’ Yuuri says. Phichit closes his eyes. He knows with iron certainty that somewhere in the Economics building at this very moment, Viktor Nikiforov is feeling the urge to cry for no reason he’s aware of. Poor Viktor. Eh, you win some and you lose some.

So Phichit holds the door of Chris’ room open for Yuuri and walks in after him.

* * *

What happens on Friday evening is: Yuuri grabs his earbuds from the nightstand and promptly throws himself onto his bed, after telling Phichit to make himself at home with an absent-minded, dismissive gesture. Phichit sits on Chris’ desk and texts Chris very calmly until Chris comes by to pick him up for dinner at the college bar. Yuuri wakes up from his feverish nap, even though they do their best to be quiet; he sits up and swings his legs to the floor and Chris manhandles him back into bed with a friendly pat on the bottom. Yuuri doesn’t even bat an eyelid at the physical contact. He just allows himself to be tucked under the blankets and goes back to sleep.

It seems that everybody with the good fortune to encounter Yuuri in their lifetimes, from Yuuko to Chris to Phichit Chulanont, immediately adopts Yuuri. This is the way things should be. Phichit’s glad to add himself to that hallowed circle.

What happens on Saturday morning is: Phichit’s having breakfast in the dining hall, poking at his eggs (overcooked today), when he spots Yuuri lingering around the salad bar. Phichit likes the dining hall on Saturdays. It’s emptier than usual since most people prefer sleeping in, especially after their Friday night pub crawl. Phichit’s alone, though. He sets down his fork, thinks for a second about what he’s doing — and then Yuuri turns around and Phichit stops second-guessing himself. He waves.

Phichit glances away before he can gauge Yuuri’s reaction. He goes back to his breakfast, stamping down the sudden rush of blood in his ears. When he looks up again, it’s to an unexpected sight: Yuuri making his way over to Phichit’s empty table, the rhythm of his footsteps cautious.

‘Hi,’ Yuuri says, before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and releasing it just as quickly. ‘Can I sit here?’

Phichit smiles at Yuuri. He’s got a nice smile. He knows this. ‘Sure.’

Yuuri pulls out the chair opposite Phichit and sits down, setting his tray carefully on the table between them. He’s still wearing that familiar grey hoodie; a faded blue shirt peeks out under the collar, and his hair is rumpled. He’s got a bowl of cereal and a couple of pears and coffee, which is surely not enough. Phichit fidgets with the tingling need to _feed him_.

Before Phichit can stop himself, he picks up the bread roll he’s been unenthusiastically buttering and slides it onto Yuuri’s… onto Yuuri’s tray, as Yuuri doesn’t have a plate. ‘Eat that,’ Phichit directs, mouth full. With his left hand he nudges his phone closer to his own tray, unlocks it and taps out a text to Viktor: _come down to dining hall asap TRUST ME_. He hits send. ‘It’s good.’

‘Oh.’ Yuuri blinks down at the roll. ( _WAKE UP VITYA_ , Phichit types one-handed, a little frantically.) ‘Thanks.’

A few more people are streaming into the dining hall now, and pale grey sunlight filters weakly through the windows. Phichit’s sitting at the furthest table from the entrance, and this is probably what appealed to Yuuri. Phichit transfers a forkful of sausage from his plate to his mouth — he wonders about trying to force a conversation, _something_ — but. But. Yuuri’s seated opposite him, quiet. Looking at Yuuri tends to be calming. It’s nice. The silence is nice.

After a couple more heartbeats Phichit picks up his phone, lifting it into Yuuri’s line of vision. Yuuri gazes back at him, tranquil. ‘Do you want to see this photo of a dog I found on Twitter?’

Yuuri’s eyelids flicker. ‘Okay.’ He takes a bite out of Phichit’s bread roll and chews for a moment. ‘Send it to me?’

Phichit breathes a little easier. _This_ is easier. He pulls up Yuuri’s name in his contacts and texts the photo to Yuuri; on the table, Yuuri’s phone vibrates, and Yuuri glances down. Reaches over to type out a response.

Phichit looks down at his own phone, which has lit up with another notification. Although Viktor still hasn’t responded, Yuuri’s sent back:

_:D_

Phichit smiles.

‘Do you have a dog?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. Back home,’ Yuuri says through his mouthful of cereal. He chews some more, carefully, and swallows. ‘You didn’t come to Breakdance.’

Oh. Phichit spears another sausage with his fork. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ replies Yuuri, his voice mild. ‘Yuuko kept asking me about you. You should come.’

‘Sometimes I can’t.’

‘Oh.’ Yuuri seems taken aback. Once, Phichit was terrified of him. ‘Okay.’ Yuuri pauses: a gentle, courteous, unthinking sort of pause. ‘Why?’

‘I, uh. I have social anxiety?’ says Phichit. ‘It kind of holds me back.’

Yuuri watches Phichit’s face for a moment or two, apparently puzzled by this dash of honesty. His glasses are smudged and the shadows under his eyes very dark. He sets down his half-eaten bread roll, hesitates, then spoons more cereal into his mouth. He doesn’t seem to like making eye contact; he taps the spoon absently against his lips and glances down at the grimy tabletop instead. ‘That’s okay.’

‘It’s really not,’ Phichit tells him. ‘I just have to live with it.’

‘I’m not very good at this,’ Yuuri says. ‘I’m, um, I’m usually. Usually I’m on the receiving end?’ He frowns at Phichit in consternation. ‘Should I… Do you want a hug?’

Phichit laughs. ‘Do you _want_ to give me a hug?’

‘Physical touch is supposed to be comforting.’ Yuuri scratches his nose. ‘I learned that from wikiHow.’

‘And your Psychology studies.’

‘And my Psychology studies,’ Yuuri agrees, his mouth quirking up at the corners. His smile’s so beautiful that Phichit wants to keep the memory of it, and — it’s weird to get your phone out and snap pictures of people, but — he wants —

Phichit puts his fork down and makes an L-shape with the thumb and index finger of each hand, turning his right hand upside down to form a rectangle-shape like a camera. Framed this way between the Polaroid-edge corners of Phichit’s fingers, Yuuri looks perfect. ‘Smile again,’ Phichit orders.

‘What?’ says Yuuri, confused but laughing. Phichit grins. He’s satisfied.

‘There.’

He lowers his hands. Yuuri looks down at the bowl in front of him, as if considering his actions, and then scoops up a spoonful, milk and all.

‘Want some cereal?’ Yuuri asks.

Phichit opens his mouth and lets Yuuri feed him the cereal. He chews, swallows, licks a stray droplet of milk from the corner of his mouth and does his best Viktor-voice: ‘Wow! Amazing!’

‘You think you’re so funny,’ says Viktor behind him. Phichit jumps. Yuuri jumps, too. Viktor lowers himself into the seat next to Phichit with his own breakfast tray, his motions sleek and graceful as a runway model’s. He shoots Phichit a dark, rapid thank-you glance under his eyelashes, and Phichit frowns. Viktor’s wearing the Depression Sweater, the soft dark woollen one that feels like a nap and which Phichit has not-so-subtly trained Viktor to use as a distress call.

‘Where’s your other sweater?’

‘Somebody took my laundry out of the machine in the middle of the cycle again,’ Viktor answers, serene as a little pond sun-kissed by falling leaves in the autumn. He smiles dazzlingly at Yuuri, who blushes crimson. ‘I will not retaliate.’ Under the table, he flicks Phichit’s thigh to signal _I’m telling the truth this time_ , and Phichit relaxes and shovels more baked beans into his mouth. Now Viktor turns his full attention on Yuuri, his voice like velvet. There’s a hint of red rising in his cheeks and across the tip of his nose. ‘Hi. I’m Viktor Nikiforov.’

‘I know,’ says Yuuri, the bread roll halfway to his lips. His eyes have gone wide and dark with recognition, and Phichit knows — yeah, Phichit knows they’ll be fine. Phichit reaches out and gently nudges Yuuri’s elbow towards his mouth, and Yuuri bites into the roll and chews slowly. He doesn’t take his gaze off Viktor even for an instant. He looks like a man transfixed.

‘You’re welcome,’ Phichit whispers in Thai as he leans over Viktor to get the pepper shaker from the other end of the table. Viktor pretends not to understand him. Yuuri doesn’t hear him, anyway.

‘What’s your name?’ Viktor says.

‘You know who I am,’ Yuuri responds matter-of-factly. Viktor audibly swallows. Phichit unlocks his phone and checks the time. He gives Viktor and Yuuri an estimate of ten minutes before they start eye-fucking.

They don’t even make it to five.

Phichit ducks his head over his tray to hide his glee. He feels warm inside, all liquid and honey-sweet despite the chill of the morning. He’s okay. He’s not ready to speak up in seminars yet, maybe, or deal with large groups of people at a time, but. That’s… that’s fine. One person at a time. Maybe that’s fine. He has time. He has Viktor, like he’s always had, and — maybe he can add two more people to the list that means safety, today. He’s not even at the end of his first term, after all. He’s learning to live with this brain of his. He’ll get better.

He’s working on it.

* * *

_(bonus: thirty minutes later)_

‘I never got your number that night.’

‘Give me your phone and I’ll give it to you,’ Yuuri says. He takes the phone Viktor slides across the table and coolly opens Viktor’s contacts app. A little furrow appears between his eyebrows; his mouth furls in concentration. Phichit, meanwhile, sees the familiar shape of a head across the now-nearly-full dining hall — blond hair, dyed brown underneath — and his arm shoots up before he can think about it.

‘Chris!’ Phichit shouts. ‘Over here!’

Chris has a good ear for Phichit’s voice. Phichit sees him turn towards the sound and sighs with relief. Now Yuuri hands the phone back to Viktor, very obviously trying not to look at him.

‘You should call me.’

Viktor tilts his head, cheeks very pink. ‘Hmm?’

‘So I can get your number from my call history,’ Yuuri explains. Viktor deflates a tiny bit.

Chris is heading towards them now, eyebrows rising steadily towards his hairline, and Phichit sends him a meaningful glance. Chris knows most of the saga of Mystery Boy, having been the only person other than Viktor whom Phichit could talk to about Viktor. Up till now, that is. If Yuuri and Chris are as close as they appear, chances are Chris has always known even more than he’s let on. He takes one look at Viktor leaning on his elbows and Yuuri’s flushed face and his mouth curves upwards, syrupy-slow.

‘So, Viktor Nikiforov,’ says Chris silkily, dropping onto the chair beside Yuuri before Phichit can say anything. ‘Tell me about yourself. How many boyfriends have you had? Do you think you’re good enough for Yuuri?’

Viktor smiles back, all teeth.

Phichit and Yuuri look at each other across the table and simultaneously feel an urgent need to get out of the crossfire.


End file.
